


Boiling Over

by tsurai



Series: Fist 'verse [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Explicit Language, M/M, Mahanon is still angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3825871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Mahanon yells at Solas for things that haven't happened yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boiling Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SOMNlARl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMNlARl/gifts).



> For a prompt in which the lovely [xhermionedanger](http://tmblr.co/meEfEgHWe4Y6UvZQUEByi4g) asked for Mahanon getting angry with and possibly punching Solas. Sorry the punching part didn't happen.

Mahanon leans against his staff, thankfully rescued from the some dank cupboard where Cassandra stashed it after she tossed him in the dungeon. Other than his armour, it was the only thing that came through the Breach with him. If only he could remember what happened this time...

He's in the doorway of Solas' hut, several days after they closed the Breach. They both had to be carried back to Haven, and Mahanon was given very little time to rest before he was hustled into the War Room and grilled within an inch of his life. Cassandra and Leliana's rapid-fire questions were only interspersed by the incessant scratching of Josephine's quill and Cullen's purposefully calm breaths.

He kept much to himself. They knew it, and he knew they knew it.

How strange it had been, to sit in a room full of people he knew the secrets of, while they looked upon him as a veritable stranger. He has the feeling now, looking in on Solas – the apostate is aware of him, no doubt. The man is hunched in his chair, a posture he only adopts when he's pretending to read.

Looking at him is painful the way walking around Haven is painful. There's no Sera, no Bull, no Blackwall, no Dorian. No Vivienne to pester or Cole to sit with as he quietly narrates the inner thoughts of passers-by. Just the advisors and Cassandra, watching him with wary eyes. They've seen a fraction of his power, and of the power his sudden foreknowledge holds. Even talking with Varric is a painful reminder that the dwarf does not know him, for all he jokes in Mahanon's presence.

And then there is Solas – this man that part of him wishes nothing more than to touch, to hug him tight enough to be  _sure_ that he's real. The larger part of him is just angry. 

“I felt you walking through my dreams last night,” Mahanon finally speaks. He doesn't look away when Solas stills, looking up at him with those damnably cool eyes. 

“You did not inform the others as to the truth myself. Or the orb.”

“And what, you wanted to know why?” Mahanon grunts, finally stepping into the hut to fall onto the bed next to Solas' desk. He stares back unapologetically when the man glares at him. “Despite how I may trust them in the future, _these_ people wouldn't understand. They're too human, too...Andrastrian. They'd string you up on a pole the moment they found out what you've done.”

Though he does not move, Mahanon can see Solas' hands clench white-knuckled around the book. He snaps it shut, finally turning in his chair to face Mahanon fully. “And what do you think you know of what I've done?” His voice is bland, lightly curious in a manner that makes anger boil beneath Mahanon's breast.

“I know you gave Corypheus the orb,” he grinds out, snorting at the shocked look on Solas' face as he jumps up. “What I can understand is, why? I mean, what were you even thinking? What _possible reason_ could you have for handing a darkspawn that much power?” He's pacing, now. Back and forth with the steady thump of his staff at each turn. 

“Lavellan-” Solas starts, but the words that Mahanon has longed to say are boiling over.

“No, don't interrupt me, old man! You handed him the key to our destruction, for what-the-fuck-ever reason, then turned on him for the Inquisition. Then after the final battle you just fucked off! Disappeared, and I _looked_ but you were gone! Why, _lethallin_?” He's breathing heavily now, facing away from the other elf. What follows is a long silence, punctuated only by his stuttering breaths. This isn't what he wants, he didn't mean to yell-

“I was trying to set them free.” Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. Mahanon turns to look at him.

“Set who free?” 

“Elgar'nan, Andruil, Falon'din – the ones that the Dalish refer to as gods.” Then it was Solas' turn to stand, looking at him. “You know me as the Betrayer, and I am. I locked them away and no sooner did our people fall to ruin.” A look of such despair passes over his face that Mahanon takes an abortive step forward, though to do what he doesn't know. “When I woke from uthenera, I was weak, desperately so. Then I saw what our people had become: poor, short-lived, veritable slaves scrabbling for coin in the cities or wandering the hills with beliefs so twisted by time that they're nigh unrecognisable. And I had to do something.” 

“But we already were slaves,” Mahanon speaks before he can stop himself. “You told me the _vallaslin_ were slave markings in your-in that time.” 

“Yes. But to see how far our people had fallen... I am weak, and I thought that if I could bring them back to this world, they might help me raise our people up again...”

Mahanon fights the urge to strike the ridiculous elf – he knows Solas will stop listening entirely if he resorts to violence, no matter how much he might wish to inflict it.“They can't. Or they won't, if what you told me is true. Andruil was going mad, Mythal dead-”

Solas' gaze snaps up. “You know about that?”

“Yes, but that's not the point!” he tosses back, annoyed. “The point is you gave the orb to Corypheus thinking, what, that he would help you? That he would give up on conquering Thedas to help out a few _elves_? That's fucking stupid, I _know_ you're not that stupid.” He sees Solas start to speak again and holds up a hand to silence him. “And I don't think you're going to tell me the truth now either. You don't know me, this time. So I guess that's...that's fair but,” Mahanon pauses, biting his lip as indecision stills his tongue. No matter how close they grew in his past, the old god has always been an enigma to him, with so much of his motivation shrouded in mystery. The fact that the majority of it escaped him until this moment makes him ache for those days when Solas had hailed him as a friend. He breathes. 

“Our people. You want to raise them up again; you can do that with the Inquisition. By the next year they will be rallied under this banner: the city elves, the Dalish, vagrants, and apostates. _Our_ people will have a foothold. They don't- we don't _need_ the old gods,” he says in a rush. “Think about it. You and I, we've closed the Breach. Two elves did what hundreds of humans couldn't. They'll start to see us as more. We will make such a noise that they cannot possibly ignore us.”

Solas frowns at him. “It's not the same.” Mahanon feels like snarling.

“It doesn't _need_ to be the same! So elves no longer rule, that's fine! It's much better that we just get along with the humans. They may not be _elvenhan_ , but they are still deserving of a place in this world, just as we are. You think the gods would stand for that?” He can see the thoughts turning behind the mage's eyes, deciding to push just a little bit more. “The orb was destroyed, last time, and I may have to do it again to defeat the magister. He can't continue to possess that much power. Will you help, even if it means we can't free them?”

It's an enormous risk, telling the god this. Fen'harel has never been known for his helpfulness, tales of the elven lord and his dead daughter aside. 

Solas sighs. “I will do my best, Lavellan. I can promise no more than that.”

Mahanon lets out a sigh of his own. “That's all I can ask. Thank you,  _ma vh_ -” his mouth clamps down on the words, but it is already too late. He sees realization light in the other man's eyes. 

Stomach heavy with humiliation, the Herald of Andraste and future Inquisitor – having gotten what he came for – turns and flees. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow for frequent updates or prompt me [here](http://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/).


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